One Up Manship
by Sad eyed Lady of The Low Life
Summary: Sherlocks pays a late night visit to Lestrade. Sherlock/Lestrade One-shot Complete


Title: One Up Manship

Author: fairlygrimm

Beta: yummietimelord (the ever wonderbar)

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade

Status: Complete

Warnings: Slash and horrible attempt at a case

Spoilers: None really...unless Mofit and Gatiss decide that they want to incorporate this story line (or lack there-of) into the second series... Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Lestrade but lord help me I love them..

Summary: Sherlocks pays a late night visit to Lestrade

Authors Note: I don't even know... Lord help me get used to this pron writing... *bites nails and laughs nervously.*

Its good to back though!

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><p>The sound of his window opening and the cool breeze tickling his bare back alerted Greg Lestrade to a foreign presence in his bedroom. His hands automatically went for the cricket bat by his bedside locker. He didn't play cricket, he didn't like cricket, and like most people, he didn't understand cricket, but damn it if that hunk of wood wasn't good to use for self defense.<p>

'Put the cricket bat down Lestrade' came the cool voice of Sherlock Holmes, who now was slinking across the room to flick on the light switch.

The bright light dazzled Greg. He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

'Why are you here Sherlock?' came the muffled voice beneath the heavy cloth.

'I'm bored.' Sherlock said rather impassively as he rummaged around the room, picking at Greg's various nick knacks.

'You have an awful lot of rubbish you know Lestrade.'

Greg refused to point out that that was the pot calling the kettle black. He didn't want an argument so he just remained tight lipped beneath the covers. Sherlock continued.

'You're a hoarder.' He spoke matter of factly. 'I wouldn't have thought that.' Sherlock mentally added this note to the file on Gregory Lestrade that hr had stored in his head.

Greg peeped up from under the covers at this alarm clock. 2.30 am. Greg ducked his head back under the covers.

'For fucks sake Sherlock. Why aren't you bothering John?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He's out with Sarah. Won't be home till the morning. Smelling of perfume and sex and looking guilty.' He answered off handedly.

'Well could you not just solve that murder and leave me alone?' Greg barked.

'Already done.' Sherlock answered uninterestedly.

'What?' Greg whipped the covers off from over his head and sat up in shock.

'Already solved. It was the neighbour. The victim had recently moved into the apartment building. His apartment revealed that he had his speakers pressed up against the wall of the apartment next door. The neighbour worked nights, could get no sleep during the day because music would be blaring from the speaker straight into his bedroom. He hadn't slept properly in a week. Asked the victim to sort out the noise, at which point the victim laughed at him and told him to piss off. The victim was hired by the neighbour's boss to try and get the perpetrator fired. The neighbour eventually lost his job because he kept sleeping in and missing work and due to lack of sleep hit the guy across the back of the head with a shovel, which explains the mud in his hair and then stabbed him in the back, which explains the unusual, rusty stab wound. I already have a confession. It was a crime of passion' He answered mechanically, coldly.

He then looked up from the tortoise shell he had been inspecting, and appraised Lestrade for a moment.

'You sleep with no pillows.' He then added, almost as an after thought.

Greg sat there a moment. He vaguely registered Sherlock's comment about the pillows, purely out of habit of absorbing everything that Sherlock had to say, not out of any need to explain his lack of pillows.

Sherlock continued to prowl about the room, picking up various books and putting them back down in the wrong place.

'All the book spines are crinkled... you read a lot...' he commented. '...but nothing that would be considered intelligent reading. More like trashy airport novels. How quaint of you.' He acted as if he were alone, just speaking to the walls. The man seemed to love the sound of his own voice.

Greg ignored him and went straight to the murder.

'Where did he get the shovel?' he asked mid yawn.

'What?' Sherlock asked absentmindedly before putting down the book, he seemed to finally notice that there was someone else in the room with him.

'The shovel Sherlock!' Greg snapped. 'If this was a crime of passion where would a man who lives in an apartment complex, in the middle of the city, get a mud streaked rusty old shovel? Would it just be lying around?'

'What does it matter where he got it?' Sherlock asked slightly confused.

Greg rolled his eyes. The man was an idiot at the best of times, a genius at the worst.

'It matters Sherlock. If he arranged for the shovel to be handy opposed to just finding the shovel and in a blind rage killing the man, that is murder, otherwise it would be a crime of passion.'

'Is there really a difference?'

'There's a big difference between a premeditated murder and a crime of passion.' Greg replied angrily.

'Really? Can a crime of passion not be premeditated?' Sherlock asked intrigued.

'No.' was the simple reply.

'Really?' He asked again in disbelief.

'What are you deaf? Yes really!' Greg was annoyed now.

Great, Sherlock solved the crime, but he had also broken into Greg's home, woken him up, commented on his life, messed up his books, and then proceeded to insult his taste in them.

'And for the record, my 'intelligent' literature is down stairs in the living room. The 'trashy' novels help me get to sleep.' He added snappishly. So he was even more frustrated when Sherlock seemed to have just ignored him.

'Allow me to prove you wrong.' Sherlock smirked.

'Oh Sherlock don't start spouting off old fucking cases from a hundred years ago for Christ sake. It's 2 in the morning, I've had a long bloody week, just let me be.' Greg pleaded.

'I wasn't going to spout off cases from a hundred years ago to prove you wrong although I do know some...'

Greg rolled his eyes. Even when Sherlock was trying to down play his own intelligence he managed to down play everyone else's also.

'No I was thinking more along the lines of this...' And he grabbed Greg by the shoulders and pulled him in for a searing kiss. His hands trailing down Greg's naked chest as he lay on top of him, his leg sneaking it's way between Greg's legs and pushed his knee lightly up against his groin. Greg moaned loudly.

'You see Lestrade, this was a premeditated crime of passion.' Sherlock murmured darkly as he continued to press him into the mattress.

'Christ...' Greg hissed between clenched teeth and arched lightly when Sherlock slipped across his body to grind their hips together, his hardness pressing up against Gregs. Both men moaned at the friction.

Sherlock continued to grind into him. Greg arched up towards every thrust. He pulled and dragged Sherlock's shoulders down, with a force that seemed to stem from Greg's need to meld with Sherlock, trying to get them as close as was humanely possible. When he finally succeeded, his lips latched on to Sherlocks neck and his teeth bit down, coaxing a low growl from the consulting detectives throat.

Sherlock's hands snaked down Greg's body and trailed beneath the waist band of his pajama bottoms. He wrapped his cool fingers around Greg's cock and rubbed him vigorously as Greg pulled desperately at Sherlocks pants. Once he had them pulled down, Greg grabbed Sherlock's long thin prick, twisting his wrist as it made its journey from base to tip. The intense heat and friction that Greg's ministrations were doing to Sherlock caused him to forget that he had indeed intended to be bring Greg off not the other way round. Greg was highly experienced in this area, causing the younger man to writhe in pleasure. After a few moments Sherlock came. Both lay there panting heavily before speaking.

Sherlock looked up from where his head had rested against Greg's chest. 'You are incredibly skilled at this...' Greg just smirked knowingly, however his triumph was short lived.

'I assume it would be all the practice you get, since you haven't dated anyone properly in 19 months.' Sherlock added. Greg's smirk fell from his lips and he sat up.

'At least I could get you off...' he bit back, slightly harsher than he had meant.

'That's right. You didn't come did you?' Sherlock stated in a tone of indifference, sitting up to join Greg.

If Greg had just met this man, opposed to knowing him for 5 years, this calm exterior would have thrown him. However, this was Sherlock. Sherlock who, out of boredom, came to Greg with the whole intention of jumping him. Sherlock who just knew that Greg wouldn't say no. What would Sherlock need to worry about? He always knew the outcome of every situation. No wonder he was so fucking calm.

'Oh you noticed did you? I figured I had you too wound up to even care, the way you were groaning and moaning against me.' Greg answered with a hint of self-satisfaction. After all Sherlock hadn't made him come. It was a shallow victory Greg noted.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the older man's teasing. He sat up on the bed and took from his pocket a cigarette box and a silver engraved zippo lighter and lit up a cigarette. After taking a drag he passed it to Greg, who in turn took a deep, slow pull from the cigarette.

'I knew you didn't quit.' Sherlock quipped.

Lestrade held the cigarette up in front of his eyes and contemplated it for a moment.

'Actually I did. Then you came in here, sprouting off bullshit and I decided that there were worst things to die of than cancer. Annoyance for one.'

Sherlock just smirked before taking the cigarette back from the D.I.

'You know, if I was the neighbour I wouldn't have killed him, I would have gotten a few clocks. I wouldn't just want revenge...' he paused for effect and finished the cigarette, stubbing it out on the back of the carton before putting the butt in the carton.

Greg watched Sherlock incredulously. He was talking about the case. They had just crossed a very serious line. They had just gone from colleagues to a-huge-mess-of... well... of something and Sherlock was discussing the case. Greg shook his head slightly and lay back against the bed. He sighed before asking the question that Sherlock was waiting for him to ask.

'Why would you get a few clocks?' he sighed.

Sherlock smiled. Not a smirk, or a grin. He smiled.

'Because, then I could amplify the sound from the clocks using the same method, speakers pressed against the wall. The ticking wouldn't be something that would bother you initially but it would eventually drive you insane. You see revenge isn't enough. Not for me. I'd want to one up the bastard.'

And before Greg knew it Sherlock had his cock in his mouth, working his lips up and down the shaft, swirling his tongue around the base in the most obscene manner. Before he could even warn Sherlock, he was coming. Not only did he come gloriously, but Sherlocks name was ripped from deep in his throat into a earth shattering howl.

Sherlock dragged himself up beside Greg and laughed. 'You see... I always one up the bastards.'

Greg let out a breath. 'I bet you do...'

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><p>Authors Note: The usual, love, hugs, eternal gratitude to reviews etc. Also I have a fractured arm wrist (mind out of the gutter people) so I will reply to reviews but it'll probably take me about a million days to get them out since this took me about an hour to fix up... was written before said fracture but authors notes were not... ok maybe not a million... see this is dedication, trying to type with one hand just to get slash to the slash loving public... :D


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